


Taste of a Poison Paradise

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Teen Angst, The X Factor Bungalow, The X Factor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8184683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Louis notices Harry's mouth right away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First off, THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH for such a wonderful, warm reception to this fandom and to my last fic. I love you all and I love One Direction and I love being here and am so grateful to have stumbled into so much unexpected good this summer. Thank you all. 
> 
> Ok, so this is one of MANY X-Factor era fics yet to come, I cannot get enough of writing them all young and cute and reckless and innocent and exploratory. I hope that people are into that, because I don't see myself getting sick of it any time soon and I have about three million more things I want to write about, so yeah. More coming soon! 
> 
> I wrote this one because...Harry's lips....they defy physics. That's pretty much all. The title is from Britney Spears's Toxic. I thought it was fitting. 
> 
> Huge huge huge thank you as always to my beta and dear friend Jen/Hurdy Gurdy, who has flung herself so willingly into this fandom with me that we have bi-weekly coffee shop dates to shriek about larry in public like true school girls. I love you so very much and am so so lucky to be sharing this late in life Directioner madness with such a talented and efficient editor and britpicker <3 I'm ridiculously blessed. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Louis notices Harry’s mouth right away. 

He thinks it’s fair, though, since it’s a preposterously pretty thing that defies all logic or reason. It shouldn’t even exist on this planet, let alone on a _boy_ , so it doesn’t mean a thing for Louis to notice something _unearthly_ ; he’s only human, after all. He’s only doing his humanly duty of scanning the crowd of mortals and picking out possible alien spies. It’s fine to stare at a boy’s mouth for a minute before that boy realizes you’re staring at him and you meet eyes and something electric crackles between you and your stomach consequently plunges to the cement under your shoes. It’s normal to look away abruptly when he smiles because it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like the sky is falling, and no one wants to feel like the sky is falling before an important audition. It’s normal. 

Or that is at least what Louis tells himself. 

He watches Harry sing, and that’s a preposterously pretty thing, too. His eyes are way too earnest for a sixteen-year-old, and Louis has already decided that he's losing to this boy, and that’s fine, he doesn’t _deserve_ to win a competition against this alien. It’s fine. 

—-

They get put into a band together, actually, and it’s not fine _at all_. It’s not fine, and whatever Louis is feeling is _not_ normal. He’s not sure _what_ it is, exactly, but whenever he’s around Harry, he turns into an absolute _twat_. He’s never been the type to embarrass himself around girls or get caught staring at their chests or invent one hundred and twenty-five creative ways to touch them, but apparently Harry brings out the child in him because he’s certainty that type _now_. He’s never found it so _agonizingly_ difficult to look away from another human being in his entire life. 

It’s Harry’s fault for being so easy to look at, really. It’s not even that Louis is staring at him and thinking about anything _dirty_ ; he’s most often just staring at him because he’s absolutely fascinating to stare at, in every single way. His mouth is from another planet (it’s _always_ pink and so soft looking, the absolute perfect mouth for kissing or sucking, and Louis doesn’t have to think about kissing or sucking to have his eyes inevitably drawn to the objective perfection of such a mouth), and the way he talks and moves and just generally _exists_ is, like…terrifically, maddeningly compelling. Louis can’t describe it, which is probably why he’s always observing it. For the log books. For _science_. So he can later write a report detailing the Harry Styles Phenomena and become subsequently rich and famous for publishing a paper on a highly charismatic rockstar, because that is undoubtedly what Harry is destined to become. 

It’s, like, maybe something about the way he talks. He holds his hands (pale and big and really lovely; Louis doesn’t know if he’s ever really noticed anyone’s hands before, but he absolutely notices Harry’s), fingers splayed when he’s explaining something, as if he’s holding a very large invisible beach ball or magic orb. And when he speaks, the words come out impossibly slow, like the last sweet drips of molasses from the bottom of a bottle. Usually slow talkers drive Louis _insane_ , as he doesn’t have the patience to wait for them, but with Harry, he’s positively _rapt_ , eyes fixed on that single drop of molasses, mouth open to accept the dark, cloying dredges with a waiting tongue. Louis wants to hear every single word Harry has to say, and he gets unreasonably irritated when the rest of the lads _don’t_ , taking it upon himself to shut them up in preparation for the ritual of Harry talking with that stupidly beautiful alien mouth. 

It’s not fine, and it’s not normal. It’s the most intense and compulsive thing Louis has ever felt, and luckily he’s the type of person who throws himself headlong into the things he feels most strongly, even if they’re terrifying and unexpected. He could have a crisis about his not fine and not normal fixation on Harry’s mouth and speaking habits and wide, pale hands, but instead he’s having a revelation, of sorts. 

Louis has always felt somewhat like an imposter among his mates, struggling to masquerade as a typical lad with typical lad opinions about girls and girlfriends and sleeping with said girlfriends and whatnot. He _has_ a girlfriend, and he likes her very much as a person and as a friend, but whenever those late-night conversations about sex stuff and who's done what happen with boys and beer, he always feels like he’s _lying_. Like they’re going to find out he has no true or authentic desire to have sex with his girlfriend, only a true and authentic desire to pass convincingly as someone who _does_ possess that desire. Sometimes he feels like Hannah’s girlfriend status is some box he checked off so that he can be accepted into an imaginary club of teenage normalcy, but in reality, he _knows_ he doesn’t actually _belong_ in that club. 

_Maybe I’m gay_? is a question he’s asked himself more than a handful of times, but it’s always been easily dismissed because he’ll imagine, say, kissing Stan or something, and the mere _thought_ makes him wrinkle up his nose in faint disgust and incredulity. He doesn’t _want_ to kiss Stan. Kissing Hannah isn’t half as exciting as he’s been led to believe, and half the time he’d rather do something else, but at least it’s not a disgusting thought. It’s tolerable. It’s nice, even, she smells like lotion and lipgloss and ensures his membership in the club. 

Harry has given a whole new layer of meaning to the question, _Maybe I’m gay?_

Because imagining kissing Harry does not faintly disgust him, nor does it seem like something that would be tolerable, or at best, _nice_. Imagining kissing Harry, among other things, makes Louis _hard_. It makes him short of breath and hot-faced and shaky with longing, it makes his stomach twist up and his scalp prickle with a dizzying heat. Just _thinking_ about it is so overwhelming he’s worried that if for some reason it actually happened, he wouldn’t be able to hold it together; he’d just burn up right there, go up in a plume of fire and smoke and ash. He looks at Harry’s mouth sometimes and thinks, _Have people survived this? Or has he killed everyone he’s ever kissed?_

Then, of course, _Maybe I’m gay?_

He realizes that it doesn’t really matter _what_ he is, if he’s fine or normal or gay or what. He still wants to kiss Harry Styles, even if he doesn’t live to tell the tale. 

—-

It gets about thirty-five times worse when Harry tells everyone he actually likes guys and has had _actual boyfriends_ and everything. Aside from having to manage a wild pang of unreasonable jealousy, Louis realizes his formerly idle fantasy is something that could _actually_ happen, in the real world. Harry could want to kiss him back. 

They’re spending the next two weeks before the final audition at Harry’s bungalow, and the topic of Harry’s not-so-straight romantic history comes up amidst discussion of sleeping arrangements. 

“So, there’s a couch and there’s the floor and then there’s a single bed in my room,” he explains, very ,very slowly and with gesticulations that don’t particularly make sense with what he’s saying. Louis watches intently, knowing full well at this point that it’s not for the log books; it’s not for science. It’s because he fucking _fancies_ Harry, more than he ever knew was possible to fancy someone. “One of us can take the bed and one can take the couch each night, and we can, like…rotate,” Harry continues, drawing a circle in the air with one of his very long, wide jointed fingers. “Or, we could just all camp out on the floor, like, birthday party style.” 

“I don’t care one way or the other,” Zayn says, sprawled out over his sleeping roll. “As long as I get a pillow.” 

“I say we do birthday party style, at least for tonight,” Niall says. “So we’re all together.” 

“Sounds good,” Liam nods carefully, skeptically. “As long as, like…no one tries anything in the middle of the night. I had a traumatic incident one time where one of my cross-country teammates tried to make a move on me when we were sharing a hotel room before a meet.” He shudders, and Louis stares, suddenly feeling caught even though he wasn’t doing anything. “Not looking to repeat that.”

Zayn and Niall snicker. Louis thinks frantically of a joke, but Harry beats him for once, pursing his perfect lips and drawling, “Liam, do you have a _problem_ with gay people?” 

Everyone shuts up, and Liam’s mouth falls open, color rising to his cheeks fast. “Well, _no_ , of course not,” he sputters. “Just with getting hit on.” 

“Oh,” Harry says, chewing on the side of his finger thoughtfully for a moment. Louis watches intently, eyes volleying back and forth between Liam and Harry, heart in his throat. “I’m bi,” Harry says easily after a moment, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Just so you know, but I have _no_ intention of hitting on you, Liam. I promise,” he deadpans. 

Niall cracks up, shoving Liam hard. “Aw, rejected!” he crows. 

Zayn is eyeing Harry carefully, his head cocked. “That’s fine, Harry, s’not a problem. ” 

“Absolutely not,” Louis blurts afterward, chest immediately flooding with dread after he says it because _what on earth,_ could he be more obviously affected by this confession? He panics a little, latching on to the safety net of giving perpetually uptight and apparently passively homophobic Liam hard time. “Right, Payno? We’re not going to have to _school_ you on everything that’s wrong with what you just said, right?” 

Liam is very flustered and very red. Louis pokes him, watching him squirm as he says, “ _No_ , I didn’t mean…that. It came out wrong, I obviously don’t care, Harry, I’m sorry.” 

Harry smiles cheerily, the kind of smile that still makes Louis feel like the sky is falling. His stomach flips over, and Harry says, “No apology necessary,” then, in a mocking voice with a cocked head, “We all make mistakes.” 

Later that night, as they all sit around a small fire Harry set up in the back garden, listening to Niall play a frighteningly comprehensive collection of Justin Bieber covers, it comes up that Harry has an ex-boyfriend. “One of my ex’s is in my band, and it’s not awkward, not really,” he explains waving one of those hands in the air. It’s slightly distorted in the haze of heat and smoke and darkness, and Louis is a wreck of feeling, a wreck of conflicting and short-circuiting impulses to touch and break and scream. “So I think it’s possible, to like, break up and stay on good terms. He’n I don’t really fight about things, anyway.” 

The _he_ creates a sudden, heavy silence, like everyone is remembering that Harry likes boys. Liam clears his throat, eager to jump on an opportunity to redeem himself for his earlier faux pas. “That’s great, Harry, that you and him get along. Good for you.” It’s so awkwardly encouraging and excessive that Niall snorts. 

Louis starts a slow clap. “Wow, Liam. Wow. Look who wins the medal for being the most accepting lad of the bunch. Ten stars for acceptance.” 

Liam turns red again, and everyone laughs. It’s no surprise, really, that Louis’s gaze cuts across the fire to meet Harry’s, a spark of electricity zipping up his spine as he finds that Harry is already smiling at him, that warm, huge, unbearable spread of a smile. 

It’s no surprise, really, that Louis’s heart beats so fast that he feels like he’s going to come apart. 

—-

When Louis suggests a game of truth or dare, he knows full well it’s with the intention of getting Harry in a compromising position. He doesn’t have anything particular in mind, but only because there are so many possibilities, so many things he wants to see: Harry eating something so spicy he sweats, Harry scrunching his face up in hysterical, conspiratorial laughter, Harry in women’s underwear, Harry soaking wet. Conversely, there are so many things he wants to _know_ about Harry, so many truths he’s desperate to possess. Truth or dare: more like win-win. 

However, minutes into the game, he realizes he’s being astoundingly single-minded and that he can’t _actually_ ask Harry truth or dare _every_ turn, which puts a damper on the game for him a little. That, and the fact that he just had to let Niall fart on his pillow. Luckily, everyone is working hard on torturing easily flustered and insufferably prudish Liam by asking him increasingly detailed questions about his balls, and Louis is happy to lead this crusade. Liam is out for his blood as a result, and when his turn comes up, his eyes flash dangerously as they lock on Louis. “Tommo,” he says icily. “Truth or dare.” 

Louis is not one to back down from challenges, so he just munches a handful of crisps and then pointedly wipes the residual grease on Liam’s sleeping bag. “Dare,” he says lightly, raising his eyebrows in mock innocence. 

Liam’s eyes get even darker; it’s a little terrifying. He rubs his palms together, visibly concocting the most terrible and humiliating task he can possibly fathom Louis doing. His face lights up, and Louis grits his teeth, bracing himself for something disgusting. 

“Louis, I dare you to let Harry kiss you,” Liam says, triumphantly pointing at Louis. 

Louis’s ears start to ring, and his mouth goes quite suddenly dry. Niall is cracking up, but the sound is distant, far away, and all he can really think is, _Have people survived this?_ He swallows thickly, recovering as best he can in time to snap, “ _Really_ , is that the worst you can come up with? Having this charming, fine-looking lad kiss me? Who do you think I am?” 

Liam’s face falls again, and it’s clear that he’s used to hanging out with the sort of lads who would find this riotously funny, find kissing Harry Styles an incomparably gross fate. He blinks back confusion, then sets his jaw hard and says, “Well, if you’re so _open-minded_ why don’t you do it? Let him.” 

_Let him_. Louis shivers. 

Harry is sitting upright, eyes very wide, cheeks very pink. They’ve been drinking beer all night, and it’s possible he’s had the most, so his words slur together a bit when he turns to Louis and says, “Is that okay? M’not gonna do it if it’s not okay.” 

It’s not okay. Not by a long shot, and Louis wonders if anyone can tell how much his hands are shaking where they’re braced against his thighs. “Of _course_ , it is, I’m not a twat.” He puckers up, then kisses the air. “Lay one on me, curly.” 

Everyone falls very silent, and Louis worries they can hear his heart hammering away madly in his chest, so frantically he’s sure his ribs will break. Harry moves in slow motion, blinking carefully before setting his beer down and scooting forward on his bum toward Louis, eyes sparkling. _Oh god_ , Louis thinks helplessly, watching Harry very, very slowly wet his lips with his tongue before he leans in, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Harry’s eyes flutter closed, he exhales hotly, then presses a very soft, chaste kiss on for corner of Louis’s mouth. 

It only lasts a few seconds, but Louis feels like he’s dying. His dick twitches helplessly in his joggers, his eyes fluttering shut when Harry gets close enough he can smell him, beer and fire smoke and chlorine and molasses and spice. It feels like burning; it feels like falling off a cliff. It’s the best kiss of Louis’s life. 

“That doesn’t _count_!” Liam scolds, waving his arms in the air like a referee. “I meant a _real_ kiss, Harry, like, use your tongue.” 

Louis is definitely dying. In fact, he might already be dead. He sits there helplessly, trying to remember how to breathe as Harry sways away from him, eyes half-lidded and lips so _impossibly pink_ , broken open around a laugh. “I’m really sorry, Louis,” he says for some absurd reason, a flicker of something like guilt moving over his eyes before he’s cupping one of those insanely big hands over the side of Louis’s face, pulling him in. 

His mouth is softer than Louis even _imagined_ , his tongue the the silkiest, hottest thing, slick as he opens up to suck on Louis’s lower lip. Louis can’t make sense of anything, he just knows he can taste Harry’s spit tangy with beer, and his skin, which is somehow under Louis’s hand, is the warmest thing he’s ever felt in his entire life, and he has no idea how this is happening, _what_ is happening. He slides one hand up to fist in Harry’s soft curls; he licks his way into Harry’s mouth and someone, maybe Niall, is catcalling, and he doesn’t even _care_ that the other lads are watching this, it’s the hottest thing he’s ever lived through, and all he can think is, _oh, god. Oh._ The answer to every question, _Maybe I’m gay? and Have people survived this?_ reduced to an repeated mess of, _Oh. God. Oh._

Harry eventually pulls away with a little gasp, and Louis doesn’t know _why_ ; he’s dizzy, his dick is hard, and Harry looks so fucking glowy and beautiful, his hair a mess from Louis’s hands, his mouth somehow even pinker and more swollen and soft looking than it usually is. He blinks very slowly, then furrows his brow, like this is not exactly how he expected a truth or dare kiss with Louis to go. Louis wants to thumb over that furrow. “Well,” he manages to say, clearing his throat, eyes still locked on Harry like he might fall apart if he’s not at least looking at him. “Up to standard, Liam?” 

Liam coughs. “I think you rather _enjoyed_ that,” he says, sounding disappointed. 

Louis tears his gaze away from Harry and lobs a pillow in Liam’s direction, lips tingling. “Well, _sure_. I told you, Hazza is fit, and I’m not a twat.” 

Having not gotten the desired result with Louis, Liam uses his next turn to dare Zayn to kiss Harry, to which both Harry, Zayn, and Louis (much to his horror) all shout a disgruntled “Hey!” in response to. 

Before Louis has a chance to explain his mortifying display of irrational jealousy, Harry pouts, crosses his arms, and says, “Stop using me as a prop.” 

“Yeah, s’not funny Payno,” Zayn grumbles. “Gimme something original.” 

“Where’s your creative spirit?!” Louis interjects, hijacking Liam’s turn. “Zayn, I dare you to jump in the pool wearing all your clothes. Go.” 

Zayn sighs dramatically, and Harry watches him go with his lower lip in his teeth, eyes wide and glittering and elated. Louis watches Harry, the way his skin dimples under the white glint of incisors, the way his cheek dimples as he laughs. So many dimples, so much light, and all Louis wants is to kiss him again, and again, and again. 

He should look away, he should relish his handiwork. Zayn is freezing cold and dripping, trying to rescue his fancy snapback, he can _hear_ his chattering teeth, his splashing as he flounders, but he just can’t, he can’t look away from Harry.

—-

Later that night, Louis finds himself alone in the bathroom with Harry while they brush their teeth before bed.

Harry isn’t acting like anything happened; he isn’t acting like snogging Louis forever altered his world. As a result, Louis is a little disappointed that there’s nothing visible or concretely changed about Harry the way he feels visibly and concretely changed, cheeks pink and heart quickening as he squeezes a blob of toothpaste out onto his toothbrush. He wants to _say_ something, he wants to wrap his arms around Harry from behind and pull him close, bury his nose in the soft warm curls at the base of his neck and breathe him in. It’s something he does to Hannah, occasionally, that good-boyfriend-hug-from-behind thing that he learned from rom-coms. For the first time in his life, though, he’s realizing what it feels like to want to do that solely to be _close_ to someone, not just to fulfill an unspoken quota of boyfriendy things in order to maintain his membership in the club. He just wants to _touch_ Harry because there’s nothing in the world that’s ever felt so effortlessly, magically good. 

Louis brushes his teeth and steals glances at Harry in the mirror the whole time, chest aching over how desperately he wants him. 

He decidedly spits a mouthful of foam into the sink and blurts out, “You’re a really good kisser.” 

Harry’s hand stops moving, and he locks eyes with Louis in the mirror. There’s a rivulet of white on his chin, and that isn’t even _fair_ ; Louis feels sick as he watches the flush climb Harry’s neck, staining his lovely cheeks. He spits, wipes his mouth, and says, “Are you just saying that?” 

Louis makes a face, taken aback. “No? Why would I…,” then he panics, suddenly worried that he came across like _Liam_ , offering fake affirmations to Harry in futile efforts to appear more comfortable with his sexuality than he really is. “Nevermind," he says awkwardly, turning on his heel to leave when Harry spins, reaches out, and grabs his hand. 

“No, wait,” he says, long fingers curling around Louis’s wrist, right over the terrified thrum of blood there, just under his skin. He squeezes. “You’re a really good kisser, too,” Harry says in a low voice, smiling in a way that’s somehow smug and sheepish at the same time, and that shouldn’t be _possible_ , no one’s lips should be capable of forming a shape that drips with simultaneous shyness and complacency. Harry is so many _paradoxes_ , clumsy and effortlessly graceful, all at once. 

Louis wants to pull him in by his wrist and kiss him again so badly his teeth hurt from clenching them. He wants to kiss him one hundred times, until he’s memorized the feeling of his lips and mapped the crooked inside of his teeth and bitten him until he’s swollen and red and panting, and then he wants to kiss him some more. He wants to suck a collar of bite marks around his neck, see how much suction it takes to make his pale skin bloom in bruises. There isn’t anything he doesn’t want to do to Harry, really, and it should be scary, and it _is_ , it’s new and terrifying and huge, but not enough for it to stop Louis from wanting it so hard he loses himself in the wild surge of that want, suddenly so blind. 

Louis’s hand starts to sweat, so he drops Harry’s nervously, wiping his fingers on his joggers and looking resolutely at his own bare feet. “Thank you,” he says after a moment, at a loss for words for the first time in his life. 

—-

Two days later, they adopt the bed-couch rotation pattern, and Louis is thrilled when Harry offers him first dibs on the bed. “Only if you keep me company in there for the night,” he suggests, cocking his hip out as he says it in this new way he recognizes as _flirting_. His heart flutters when a grin overtakes Harry’s face. 

“I’d love to,” he says, so sincerely that Louis wants to grab him, pinch his stupid dimples, and squeeze until he looks less irresistible. 

There’s a joke to be made here, something about track meets and Liam’s crippling insecurity, but jokes dispel tension, and Louis isn’t sure he wants to dispel the tension between them. He want to feel it crackling, he wants to incinerate in it. 

That night, they retire to bed a little early, and Louis basically can’t breathe, suffocated by the knowledge that he’s about to be _alone_ with Harry, nothing separating them but a layer of blankets and sleeping bag nylon. It’s so scary and so exciting, and he wants to _do_ something about it, take advantage of their time together but he’s not sure he knows _what_ , not sure he knows how to make a move on another boy the way one would with a girl. Harry, for all his sixteen years, knows more than Louis does about this sort of thing, and as a result, Louis feels awkward and clumsy and young in comparison, made anxious by the knowledge that Harry has fancied boys before and figured out what to do about it, but this is all new to Louis, uncharted territory and he doesn’t want to fuck anything up. 

They pile into the bedroom, and Louis launches dramatically onto the bed, rubbing his face greedily into the sheets, loving that they’re _Harry’s_ , that they’re sheets he’s slept on, drooled on, dreamt on, sweated on, _wanked_ on. They smell like detergent, but he doesn’t care; anything that has once touched Harry’s naked skin is enough to make him shiver giddily. “This is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever felt in my entire life,” he declares, flopping out over it like he’s exhausted from a day full of sunshine and footie and Marco Polo, and not at all crawling out of his skin with combined nerves and elated butterflies. 

“I’d hate to see what you have at home, then,” Harry drawls, arranging his sleeping bag on the floor, plumping his pillows before sinking down onto them. “Rocks? Straw bales? Does your mum make you sleep in a barn?” 

“Oi!” Louis shouts, grabbing his beanie off his head and chucking it at Harry. “Don’t you talk about me mum that way, she’s an angel.” 

“I’m sure she is,” Harry snickers, stealing the beanie and jamming it onto his head before Louis can snatch it back. “S’not her fault her son is an uncivilized animal, impressed by ancient mattresses.” He reaches for the switch on the bedside lamp and clicks it off before Louis fully arranges himself for bed, his contacts still in and the covers still in disarray. 

Louis yelps in the sudden darkness. “I was _doing_ things you know,” he snaps, knocking his shin awkwardly and somewhat painfully into the bedframe as he clambers up onto it. “Ow! See? You’re responsible for my injuries now, I hope you’re happy.” 

Harry laughs, a low, mischievous giggle. “I’m happy,” he says then. 

There’s a weight to the way he says it, or maybe it’s just the darkness, the way Louis’s eyes haven’t adjusted to it; Harry feels too far away and too close all at once, just out of reach, the night electric with the sound of their shared breath trapped in this little room. Louis’s heart kicks up, and he wonders if it sounds as loud to Harry as it does to him, the blood pounding in his ears. “M’glad you’re happy,” Louis murmurs, and he wants to _tease_ , but it doesn’t sound like teasing, it sounds breathy and raw and _intimate_. He swallows, and he can hear Harry stirring in his sleeping bag. 

They both get inexplicably quiet, a sudden hush falling over the room as they settle into bed an arm’s width apart. Louis could reach down off the edge of the bed and touch Harry, graze his arm, his cheek, and he could play it off like an accident if Harry gets weird about it. He’s half considering doing just that when Harry clears his throat and murmurs, “Lou, can I tell you something?” 

Louis’s stomachs clutches unpleasantly, and he’s grateful Harry can’t see him right now because he has no idea what his face is doing, how much of his fear is showing on his skin. “Of course,” he whispers. 

“You promise you won’t make a big deal about it?” Harry asks after a moment. 

“Well, I can’t _promise,_ ” Louis says, toying nervously with the strings of his hoodie, “but I can try really hard.” His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and he can make out the pale curve of Harry’s cheek, visible just over the edge of the sleeping bag, curls of soft hair dusting the crest of it. He’s so beautiful, even when he’s just a single blot of white amid so much darkness. Louis wants to be on the floor with him, he wants to ghost his lips across Harry’s dimple. 

“You’ve gotta promise,” Harry says after a moment, and Louis can _hear_ the pout in his voice. “I won’t tell you otherwise.” 

Louis swallows, scooting to the edge of the bed so he can look down at Harry and the defensive, curved shape of his body. Louis’s heart thuds so hard in his chest, and he’s in love, he _must_ be, that’s what this is. That’s why he feels trapped in a perpetual free fall. “Well, in that case,” he murmurs, “I promise.” 

Harry takes a deep, rattling breath, like he’s preparing to plunge under the surface of very cold water. “Okay,” he whispers. Then, “I can’t stop thinking about kissing you. I really, really, want to do it again. And, like, I know you have a girlfriend and that you’re not gay, or anything, but…I just thought I should probably tell you. I want to know if you’re thinking about it, too, or if I should stop wanting it so bad. Before I can’t stop.” 

_You could stop?_ Louis thinks wildly, heart in his throat, cheeks burning. _Because I can’t stop, don’t think I’ll ever be able to_. He blinks in the darkness for a moment while he catches his breath, amazed and, like, _moved_ by Harry’s stark candor. Harry is so fucking _brave_ about who he is, telling four new friends he likes boys without knowing for sure they won’t beat him up for it, admitting he wants to kiss Louis again, without shame or fear or insecurity. Or, perhaps in spite of all that. The raw honesty of Harry’s confession makes Louis feel _rotten_ about himself for a moment, how he’s just ignored whatever long-running confusion he’s harbored about his sexuality in favor of the easy apathy of being with Hannah. Then, the rotten feeling passes, and he just feels emboldened by Harry. Like he wants to be _better_ for him, braver and more honest and more vulnerable. “Um,” he says, inhaling sharply, “I’m definitely thinking about it, too.” 

He hears Harry let out a nervous breath of relief. “Really?” he asks. 

Louis isn’t sure he remembers how to form words properly, so he moves before he loses his nerve, sliding out of bed and onto the floor beside Harry, sidling up into the warmth around his body before finding his lips in the dark. 

Harry makes a small, helpless noise of surprise, and Louis kisses it to nothingness, already trembling everywhere as he pushes himself flush against Harry, palming up his neck and into his hair, licking his lips apart and _god_. Kissing shouldn’t feel this good. Nothing should feel this good. 

He tries to kiss Harry soft, slow, but in seconds it’s turning filthy because Harry feels so _unbelievable_ , it’s too much, he wants _more_. 

He fucks Harry’s mouth with his tongue, deep and rough as he tightens a fist in his soft hair and makes him take it. And Harry takes it so _easy_ , groaning and opening his mouth, arching up off the floor to push solidly into Louis, his body so _hot_ , so perfect. Louis has never kissed anyone like this, he’s never _wanted_ to or thought to, he’s never been so blind and clumsy and desperate to _taste someone_ that he’d even dream of choking them with his tongue, using his teeth, but now he can’t _stop_. He bites Harry’s perfect, obscenely soft lips, pulling away just so he can lick at the seam of them, and everything is so _slick_ , Harry’s breath snagging, his lashes fluttering against his cheek as he pulls Louis back in for more. 

Louis could do this forever, he thinks. Just kiss Harry wet and breathless for hours; they could do nothing but snog for the whole night, and Louis would still feel like he was in heaven, like it was the absolute pinnacle of intimacy, of connection. And he’s never felt this way before; kissing Hannah was always for a _reason_ , goodbye or hello or we’re alone at your house and your mum is gone, so we have to. Kissing Hannah always felt scripted, a necessary segue to other things, fumbling hands and whatnot. Louis was always concerned about taking too long or not long enough to kiss Hannah, uncertain as to what was the expected amount of time to kiss his girlfriend before his hands were supposed to wander up her shirt. 

He’s not thinking about any of that with Harry, though. He’s too blinded by it, he’s losing time just drowning in the silky feeling of Harry’s mouth under his, open and panting, the sexiest thing he’s ever felt. He doesn’t even _realize_ his hands have wandered up Harry’s shirt, he doesn’t even realize how much he’s touching him, just that he has greedy palmfuls of hot, smooth skin, and it feels more like sex than actual sex with Hannah has ever felt. He’s hard, hard for _Harry_ , not hard because he’s a half-drunk teenager rutting up against a warm body. He’s hard because Harry is moaning soft and low into his mouth, because Harry’s pumping his hips, and he can feel the hard line of his erection pressing into his thigh, dirty and gorgeous, the heat bleeding through their pajamas and burning Louis’s skin. He’s hard because just _kissing_ Harry like this is so fucking world-changing that his eyes are stinging with the overwhelming mess of it. _This is what it’s like to be with someone you love,_ he thinks brokenly, pulling Harry’s hair just enough to where he feels the resistance, catches Harry’s tiny, hoarse whine against his lips. _This is what it’s supposed to be like._

And he could do this, just this, forever. He could come from snogging Harry on the bedroom floor with all his clothes on, but Harry is getting impatient, he can tell by the increasingly frantic bucks of his hips, the way he keeps lurching and gasping, so many involuntary sounds and tremors wracking his body. He’s been using his big hands to maul all over Louis’s back, cupping his shoulder blades, dragging him so flush that Louis can hardly breathe. But now his fingers are skirting lower, over the waistband of Louis’s joggers, trying to push in between their grinding bodies. “Louis,” he huffs out, voice thick and hoarse, and Louis’s stomach clenches up spectacularly at the way his own name sounds when Harry says it all fucked-out like that. “Lemme— I _really_ wanna touch you.” 

Louis almost comes undone from just that, has to stop grinding into Harry lest he shoot off against his thigh. He sucks in a shuddering breath, nervous because he knows Harry has touched other boys like this, but he hasn’t, hasn’t even tossed off with friends or experimentally felt another lad’s prick, just to see. He doesn’t know how to do it, and he wants Harry so badly he’s already half-gone, all his potential for skill or finesse obliterated by desperation. Still, he nods, forehead rubbing against Harry’s as he lifts himself up long enough to tug his joggers over his ass, getting the elastic just far enough down his thighs to free his erection,, glistening at the tip, _embarrassingly_ wet and hard like he’s never been before in front of another person. 

Harry struggles enthusiastically out of his own pajamas, bending his knees and kicking them off before pulling his shirt over his head, and as he spreads out, Louis forgets entirely about how embarrassingly wet or hard he might be because Harry is _naked_ under him. He’s nothing but shadows and smooth, white smudges in the night, his eyes and mouth dark and wet, and Louis feels like he’s falling into him, dizzy like he’s going to drown in so much _skin_ , so much heat. Harry’s cock is so big, thick and heavy where it bobs against his stomach, and Louis wants badly to touch it, but his hands are cemented to the floor, palms spreads on either side of Harry’s body, so he just looks and looks, eyes burning and mouth watering, wishing the light was on, so he could really _see_. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Harry murmurs, palming all over Louis’s shoulders, down his arms. He seems so calm, but his hands are shaking; Louis can feel the tremor of them against his skin. He can’t move, and he doesn’t think he can answer either without actually physically _drooling_ on Harry his mouth is so fucking flooded with saliva, so he just swallows and grinds down against Harry so that their bare cocks slide together. 

A surprised sound falls out of Louis’s throat, half gasp half groan. “Oh, my god,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean to, totally overcome by the electric jolt that leaps through his entire body at the contact. Harry is so hot under him, hot and smooth, and his cock feels _huge_ nudging up alongside Louis’s, wet with precum. Harry’s thighs fall apart easily, and he hooks one long leg around Louis, digging his heel into his thigh and drawing him close. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Louis,” he says, rolling his hips as Louis grinds him into the floor, mouth open and slick and obscene, and Louis _can’t believe_ how perfect he looks, how good it feels to have Harry on his back, legs spread. They rock together like that for a minute, like this is what sex is supposed to be, like this is the main event. Louis clumsy and terrifyingly close as he fucks the hot, humid crease of Harry’s thigh, dick scraping against his pubic hair, skin sensitive and sweat-damp, and he feels like ike this is all he’s ever been meant to do. Harry’s hands are all over him, but after a few seconds, they’re moving low on his stomach again, thumbs biting into the soft curve of his belly. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, voice all breath in Louis’s ear. “I want to touch your cock.” 

And _god_ , that word on his lips, so dirty and low, reminding Louis again that Harry is sixteen, but he’s _done this_ before; Louis isn’t his first. His stomach twists up as he cants his hips away from Harry’s for a maddening second, glancing between them just in time to see Harry reach for him and wrap his long, pale fingers around his erection, lip in his teeth. 

Time stops, and Louis forgets to be nervous because his cock looks so good in a boy’s hand, so good in _Harry’s_ hand. Like it’s supposed to be there. Precum bubbles up out of the tip, and Harry sweeps his thumb through it, whining in the back of his throat, eyes fixed on this filthy place they’re joined as he tugs Louis once slowly, like he’s just getting used to the weight and thickness of his cock in his hand. “Get on your back,” he says then, pushing at Louis’s shoulder, sharp and desperate. 

Louis does what he’s told, silent as Harry bears down over him, propping himself up on one elbow and gripping Louis’s cock in his other hand, his own erection hot and twitching as he rubs it into Louis’s hip. “God, Louis,” he murmurs, jacking him off like he knows what he’s doing, forehead pressed into Louis’s so he can watch the slide and twist of his hand. “You look so, so good.” 

A broken, overwhelmed sound escapes from Louis’s throat, so loud and sudden and animal that he doesn’t even realize it’s coming from him at first. He’s already so close, so fat and dripping as Harry works him, his thighs flexing, shaking as he thrusts messily into the tight heat of Harry’s grip. “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he garbles, lifting his ass up off the floor, his stomach spasming he’s so close. 

“Oh, god, _please_ ,” Harry mumbles, squeezing his flexing cock, mouth open and wet on Louis’s cheek, tongue sweeping over the line of his jaw. “I want you to, please, _please_ ,” he breathes out, then, “ _fuck_ ,” as Louis loses it, crying out and trying to muffle it with his arm as he comes, the first two pulses of it landing on his heaving stomach, the rest spilling over Harry’s still moving fist. 

“Oh, my god,” Louis whimpers, hiding his face because somehow, between the white static of coming and the hot, shuddery overwhelm of right here, he _cried_ , there are tears in his lashes, sticky on his cheeks. He wipes them frantically, hips twitching away from Harry’s hand as he pumps him through the aftershocks, fingers gliding over slick skin, everything so slippery and messy and wet. 

He forces himself to look at Harry then and finds him in a daze, eyes wide as he pushes his hand up slowly through the come on Louis’s stomach. “You’re so hot,” he says quietly, almost to himself.

Louis’s gaze flicks down between Harry’s thighs, where his cock is still huge and hard and throbbing, the biggest prick he’s ever seen on a sixteen-year-old, and it almost doesn’t seem _possible_ , like this is a mistake, and Harry isn’t actually this life-alteringly beautiful. “ _You’re_ so hot,” Louis tells him, voice catching. He reaches out with trembling fingers and rests them on Harry’s hip, wanting so badly to touch him but still worried he doesn’t know how, that he won’t be able to make it as good for Harry as Harry made it for him. He thinks it would be easier, somehow, to use his mouth, and the thought alone makes his spent cock twitch against his belly. 

He palms roughly over Harry’s thigh, his quaking abdominals, tracking Harry’s breaths and movements, buying himself time. Harry touches himself, then, eyes locked with Louis as he takes his own cock in hand and tugs a few times, hips twitching. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want. You can just kiss me while I get myself off.” 

Louis’s heart leaps, choking him so his voice comes out hoarse when he says, “Shut up, of course I want to, of course,” before he catches Harry’s mouth, reaching down between their bodies and palming over him, his thick cock, his sticky hand. His heart stops at how _hard_ and hot he is, so hot he feels like his hand is burning as Harry’s fingers fall away and he fits his own around the thick length, the girth of it filling his whole palm. It’s both like and unlike touching himself; Harry is _bigger_ , and the shape of him is unfamiliar, but Louis wants it to become familiar so fucking badly he can’t breathe, kissing Harry until his vision starts to white out, until he has to come up for air. 

Thank god Harry is sixteen and so worked up and hot for it; Louis doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Harry is a _mess_ , twitching and throbbing in Louis’s grip, positively _dripping_ with precum, so much so that it keeps pulsing out onto his belly. Louis’s mouth is watering because he can _smell_ Harry’s arousal, musky and salt-sweet and hot; he wants to lick his fingers clean, he wants to scoot down so he’s level with Harry’s cock and suck a kiss onto the head of it, catch all that slickness that’s just leaking out of him, a waste. 

It’s so easy to make Harry moan, so easy to make him gasp and freeze and buck up into his fist, panting. It’s the easiest thing Louis has ever done, like his hands were made to make Harry feel good, and he feels wildly powerful and profoundly relieved, stupid for ever worrying about not being good at this. He’s _so_ good at it, he’s going to be the best, he’s wants Harry to forget about every boyfriend he’s ever had before this. Louis slows down his strokes because he wants it to go on forever. He wants to watch Harry writhe, his mouth parted and swollen and plush, the perfect thing to fuck into. Louis can hardly believe it, but he’s twitching against the pressure of Harry’s thigh, thickening up again even though he already came so hard he thought he was ruined.

Harry’s touching him all over with broad, mindless strokes. He pushes his hands through Louis’s hair, clutches at his shoulders, pulls at him like like he wants him _closer_ , on top again. Louis shifts over him, then Harry rubs one palm down to the curve of his back, then lower, grabbing a fistful of his ass. “ _Oh, god,_ ” he says emphatically, brokenly. His cock flexes, and Louis stops tugging, not ready for Harry to come, for this to be over. Harry inhales shakily as he grabs for Louis’s ass again, fingers brushing over the crack, his palm so broad it almost covers the whole of him, and Louis shudders, stunned because he’s never been touched like this, and it feels unspeakably hot and dirty. 

“Louis, your bum is perfect,” Harry says then, voice nothing but breath against the shell of Louis’s ear. “It’s so sexy, I’m always staring, can’t stop, you must have noticed so many times.” 

“No,” Louis breathes, arching his back to fit himself more snugly into the span of Harry’s palms, cheeks terrifically flushed. “I didn’t.” 

“Well, I do, can’t help it. You’re so fucking gorgeous Louis, m’ always wanting to touch you here,” Harry babbles between firm, greedy squeezes, and _fuck_ , this is new, this is _scorching_. 

Louis always thought the plumpness of his ass was something that made him _less_ attractive to girls, but he can physically _feel_ what it’s doing to Harry to grope him there, the way his cock is pulsing and dripping all over his stomach. He tilts Harry’s head with his free hand fisted in his hair and kisses him deep, pushing his ass up into the warm span of his hands. “Yeah?” he asks breathily between kisses. “You like it?” 

“I love it,” Harry says seriously. “I want to…will you let me see it? Just look, like, with the light on?” 

Louis has to close his eyes and breathe for a second, his chest so tight it’s almost painful. He’s so turned on again, half-hard and aching, and he _wants_ Harry to look at him, he _wants_ to squirm under the heat of Harry’s gaze, so bad he’s feeling dizzy and crazy and hot all over. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he murmurs, rolling off Harry and onto his stomach, hiding his face in his arms as Harry scrambles for the light. 

It clicks on, and he squints against Harry’s pillow, arching his back and pushing his ass into the air, feeling so _sexy_ and not at all embarrassed or shy like he thought he would in such a situation because he can _hear_ Harry’s breath catch, he can feel the awe trembling in the hand he smooths over the curve of Louis’s bum, warm and tentative. “Good?” Louis asks, voice muffled in his arm as he curves his spine and wiggles a little, pushing himself into Harry’s wide hand. 

Harry inhales shakily. “Uh, huh,” he says, rubbing up Louis’s back and then down again, squeezing him. “Amazing.” He sways close enough that Louis can feel his breath against his ass, and it’s so hot he feels _insane_ with it, grinding his now fully hard cock into the sleeping bag, working his hips in little circles against it; he hasn’t gotten hard this fast after coming since he was _fifteen_. Harry thumbs him apart, and his hole twitches, hot and needy like he wants to be touched there, and _that’s_ new too, new and impossibly hot. He rubs his face into the pillowcase, trembling as Harry mumbles, “I feel like m’gonna come just looking at you.” His voice is thick and low and wrecked, breath messy as he leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of Louis’s bum, searingly wet and sharp with teeth, with tongue. “What can I do to you?” Harry asks, sounding broken. 

Louis laughs, he’s so overwhelmed, a laugh that’s so choked up it’s mostly a moan. “What do you want to do?” 

“Everything, eventually,” Harry breathes. “If that’s okay.” His thumb is so close to Louis’s hole, kneading into the soft, thin, damp skin beside it hungrily. 

“ _Oh, god, yes,_ ” Louis says, not even recognizing his voice it’s so desperate. He humps against the floor, imagining Harry’s weight against his back, Harry’s thick cock hollowing him out, feeling so full of it. He imagines doing the same to Harry, bending his willowy legs over his own shoulders, holding his hips and pushing into him, slow and sweet and deep. He groans out loud, so needy it feels like his skin is on fire. “What are you going to do now?” he asks, terrified but ready for anything, anything at all he’s so blinded by arousal. 

Harry whimpers, leaning down and kissing Louis again, this time just above his tailbone, over which he sweeps his tongue. “Can I just grind against you? Like, come on your ass?” 

“Yes,” Louis answers automatically, spreading his thighs and propping himself up on his elbows a little, the bend in his spine deep enough it aches, feels deliciously dirty. He hears Harry’s breath catch around a shattered sound, and his heart thrills; he never thought he could feel so powerful or sexy on his belly showing his ass to another boy, but he’s never felt so disarming or disarmed in his entire _life_. 

Harry lines himself up with Louis’s crack and grinds into it, the slick heat of his cock against Louis’s hole making him lurch it’s so fucking good. “Oh, god,” he whispers, arching his back and rubbing himself against Harry’s cock, amazed by the way he can feel it twitch against him. “You feel so good.” 

Harry’s exhalation turns into a fevered keening sound, and he starts rocking against Louis in earnest, making him move in time with his thrusts, and it’s _amazing_ , so amazing Louis lies there with his mouth open and drooling, just taking it, hands fisting in Harry’s sleeping bag. He can feel the hot drag of Harry’s length against his hole, opening him up a little with each stroke, pushing his cock into the slippery nylon fabric under him, and he’s worried he might come for a second time before Harry even gets his first in when Harry locks up behind him, going stiff before he lets out a crushed groan and shoots off hard all over Louis’s back. 

Harry’s come is so hot it makes Louis cry out, makes him thrust clumsy and desperate into the floor until he comes again, mostly dry, save for a single sticky pulse. His stomach is coiled so tightly around it he _hurts_ , skin prickling and too tight as Harry collapses onto his back, breathing hard. “Wow,” he says, burying his face between Louis’s shoulder blades. “I never…wow.”

“I can’t breathe,” Louis hiccups, trying in vain to roll over under Harry’s dead weight. “Oi, Hazza. You’re killing me.” 

Harry giggles, sounding a little panicked as he slides off, crumpled next to Louis in a pile of limbs, his cock still huge and flushed and gorgeous against his pale thighs even as it’s shrinking, and Louis is a little scared because all he can think about is getting down between Harry’s legs and sucking him clean, and he knows this has to _end_ sometime, you can’t just live your entire life drowning in ways to make a single person come. “Are you good?” he asks, blinking, feeling very exposed now that the light’s on and he’s covered in his own come all over his stomach, Harry’s all over his back. The room smells overwhelmingly like sex and teenage sweat, so salty and strong and sharp, and Louis doesn’t understand how his stomach can keep clenching around pangs of arousal, he should be spent, he should be _done_. 

“I’m good,” Harry says, smiling dopily, eyes closed. “So good.” He sighs, looking very peaceful. Louis wants to kiss him all over his face, but he’s not sure you’re supposed to do that after gay sex (which he thinks is what they just did?!) or if cuddling is strictly something girls want. He hovers, wavering like a flame beside Harry before he decides that cuddles or no cuddles, he has to do _something_ about the come clinging to his skin, starting to dry into a crust on the fine hairs below his navel. 

“M’gonna clean up,” he mumbles, hobbling awkwardly into his joggers and padding off to the bathroom, cringing as he shuts the door behind him because it sounds _deafeningly_ loud in the quiet house, and he’s just now remembering that there are three other lads here, sleeping only a few rooms over. 

There are no clean towels in the bathroom so he uses a wet flannel that’s hanging in the shower, shivering at the drag of cold terrycloth over his still-sensitive skin. He struggles to wipe Harry’s come off his back, stupidly wanting to rub it in, mark himself up with it. His cock twitches, and he reaches into his joggers to cup it experimentally, amazed by the way he feels so slick and raw and swollen, like Harry’s mouth felt after so much kissing, so many bites. He shudders. He’s thinking so much about Harry, every little thing just goes back to him, like tiny capillaries all branching out but leading eventually to the same, pulsing heart. 

Before this, Louis always thought falling in love so hard would be terrifying. That he wouldn’t actually _want_ to allow someone to have so much power over him, to be the heart to which all his capillaries inevitably traced back to. But now that it’s happened to him, he feels strangely _elated_ by it. Like, it _is_ terrifying, but he doesn’t care, he _wants_ it, he wants to be bowled over by it, consumed, powerless. He wants to give himself to Harry completely, even if he gets hurt. 

He rinses his face with cold water, heart pounding hard in his chest with the force of such a revelation. Then he lets himself out of the bathroom and tiptoes back to Harry, sucking the inside of his cheeks to keep the wild brightness of his smile reduced to something swallowable. 

The light is still on, but Harry is asleep, curled up on his side, naked and with his lovely mouth open around rhythmic, wheezy breaths. Louis watches, his heart stopping because he just _made that boy come_ , and it’s such a surprising, amazing, heartbreaking thing to have happened to him. He holds back for a few seconds, then snuggles up behind Harry, curling an arm around his waist. 

Harry stirs, making a wordless humming noise before rolling over, nuzzling into Louis’s neck. It feels so _good_ , his skin warm and soft and real, his hair smelling like shampoo and oil and sex and boy. “Hi,” he mumbles, and Louis can feel him smile into his shoulder. “You came back.” 

Louis smiles into his hair, smooths a hand down his broad, smooth back. “Well, of course. Do you think I’m the kind of girl who grabs her heels and sneaks out the back door after she gets what she wants? I’m offended.” 

Harry snuffles out a laugh. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know what kind of girl you are,” he murmurs. Then, after a few seconds of idly sucking at Louis’s shoulder with a soft mouth, he whispers, “Liam is an idiot, but I am so, so glad he dared me to kiss you. I wasn’t brave enough to make a move on my own.” 

Louis’s heart picks up, and he squeezes Harry a little tighter against him, hand cupped around the padded softness of his hip. “That’s not true, you’re so brave, like, really brave,” he says, meaning it so sincerely his voice cracks a little as he says it. “You wanted to, though? I mean, like, make a move on me? Before Liam dared you?” 

“Oh, god,” Harry says, scoffing then pulling away, covering his face in his palms as he rolls onto his back. His smile is so huge that he can’t properly hide it, it lights up his whole face, and Louis can see the cut of his dimple between the loose slots of his fingers. “I wanted to so bad. Like, it’s embarrassing. It’s probably _creepy_ , how much I wanted to.” 

“No,” Louis says, beaming, grabbing Harry’s wrists and pulling his hands away from his face so he can _see_ him, the glow of his smile, his sparkling green eyes. “It’s not creepy. Or maybe it would be if I wasn’t also creepy, but I am, so. I think creepiness is only valid if it’s, like, one-sided.” 

“Is that a scientific fact?” Harry asks, poking at the corner of his smile with his tongue. Then, before Louis can answer, he adds, “Are you saying you wanted to make a move on me, too? Before Liam was, like, accidentally setting us up, I mean.” 

“Yes,” Louis says in a hush, thrilled by how nice it feels to be honest with Harry, to skip the coy, too-cool-for-real-feelings part of courtship he remembers from dating. He inhales shakily, “I wanted to kiss you so much. It was all I could think about.” The admission hangs in the air, weirdly profound in its candor. Louis isn’t used to not wearing _some_ kind of mask. 

Harry chews his lips, eyes absolutely sparkling as he blinks twice, very slowly. “You could have kissed me the second we met,” Harry tells him. “You could have done whatever you wanted, and I would have let you. I would have wanted it. Still do.” 

Louis’s stomach swoops; Harry is so fucking pretty and so fucking _unbelievable_. An alien, surely, because what sixteen-year-old boy spreads out naked on his back in the light and tells the truth like it’s _easy_? Louis can’t believe it. His heart swells painfully in his chest, and he thinks, _I love you. I am really, really, crazy in love with you, Harry Styles._ And he wants badly to tell him, thinks about what it might feel like, to spread out naked on his back in the light and tell the truth. 

Instead, he shakes his head and leans in to catch Harry’s lips in a fierce, trembling kiss. Harry kisses back easily, hooks his arms around Louis’s neck, and pulls him close, sighing into it, like he’ll be here forever, mouth soft and parted and willing. _I would have let you. I would have wanted it. Still do._

And Louis might not be _quite_ there yet, broken open and vulnerable and ready to spill into that waiting heat, but he _wants_ to be. And that, he thinks, is a preposterously pretty thing. 

—-


End file.
